


wherever you stray, i follow

by pandahuff



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Red String of Fate, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Manga Spoilers, kind of, referenced eremin and mikasasha bc i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandahuff/pseuds/pandahuff
Summary: There is a red thread attached to Historia’s finger.No matter what happens, she knows — Ymir will be at the opposite end, waiting to be followed, and Historia will let the string guide her.If she can't make it, well— Ymir will just come to find her, instead.
Relationships: Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Mikasa Ackerman & Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	wherever you stray, i follow

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to our one and only lesbian queen. happy birthday ymir sweetie <3
> 
> (title taken from taylor swift's willow)

There is a red thread attached to Historia’s finger.

It’s always been there, a part of her life that feels as natural as the early noises of the farm animals every morning and the cold and distance her mother treats her with. It starts up thin, born under her nail and hanging loose on the opposite end, blown softly by the breeze as Historia lifts her hand to watch it carefully for the third time that day, the string seeming to shine against the sunlight that burns and pierces her eyes.

It’s the thread of fate. She knows it because she asked, once, though the answer belongs to someone without a face and without a name, lost in her memories just like many of the other things she knows how to do, like reading and writing. She likes reading, just like she enjoys the company of that person who she can’t attribute an identity to, and who had told her that her string connects her soul with a person she’s destined to meet.

“But my string isn’t attached to anything,” Historia remembers saying, clearly, in a moment she can’t know if it actually happened, shaking her hand and watching intently as the red thread bobbles up and down with the movement, short and lost and not connected.

The person in her foggy memory hadn’t replied — or maybe Historia just doesn’t recall it, like many of the gaps she has in her mind that she’s unable to find anything to fill them with.

She’s lonely because no one in the farm bothers to talk to her — perhaps only some workers, who give her curt instructions about how to do her tasks correctly and nothing more than that — and she wonders if whoever has attached that little red string to her hand has decided that is how Historia should spend the rest of her days. Alone.

Historia definitely doesn’t like being alone. It’s boring when she’s done with her tasks and frustrating when thoughts that meddle inside her mind can’t be spilled out to anyone willing to hear. The nights are cold, too, because she has read in a book mothers will hold their children and whisper stories and soothing words of comfort until they fall asleep. Historia’s mother is off to town, though, taken by the fancy wagon and dressed in fancy clothing to live thrilling adventures in the city and too far away to tell Historia stories just like in the books she enjoys to read.

It’s summer, the weather is humid and there’s a layer of sweat clasping her nightwear to her skin, but Historia curls over and the hand that isn’t tucking her knees against her chest is playing with the red string of fate that doesn’t connect with anyone, hanging off the side of the bed and touched by the moonlight that enters through the window. The covers are hot and wet but there’s a blanket over her body because she still feels cold, and for some reason she hates, the thread sends a freezing chill running under her skin when its loose end meets the floor.

Historia is alone, alone, all alone. She despises being alone.

* * *

It’s one afternoon that she’s carrying a bucket filled with fresh cow milk down the dirt path that leads to the house when something tugs at her right hand with such strength her boots slip on the little rocks underneath her steps. She hugs the bucket tightly, watching the content spill in terrifying quantities and decorate the boring, dirty brown with a huge stain of white. Historia’s chest is already clenching in anticipation of the scold she’s going to receive later when her eyes catch the familiar red glimpse of her loyal thread and she notices there’s something off.

It stretches out beyond the horizon her mind can grasp, traversing objects and obstacles as if they aren’t there at all and running to meet something she definitely can’t see. It’s weird. It has never done that before.

But Historia immediately understands, and it’s only a fraction of her instincts that stops her from dropping the bucket altogether. She lifts one hand instead, hesitant and unsure and an ounce of unfamiliar electricity spreading in her chest as she pulls at the string.

It pulls back.

Historia feels her next breath catch in her throat.

The news of the emergency at Wall Maria arrive later that night.

* * *

There’s blood and death and her mother’s last words ringing in her ears, and then there’s a stained blade to her throat and the shining dark eyes of the man wearing a hat, glaring at her from under the shadows.

Historia is scared and she can’t bring her feet to move. She knows the edges of her skirt are dirty with droplets of blood and she wants to run, but there’s men in hats everywhere on the yard and it’s too dark to see where she would be going even if she manages to break free and run very far away from the farm, from the terrifying man holding a knife to her neck and from the dead mother whose last wish had been Historia never being born at all.

Something yanks her right hand gently, however, and she glances down to find her string drowned in moonlight and unfolding into the cloudy night, as if whoever is at the opposite end is reassuring her that she’s not alone. 

That’s right, unlike the days after finishing her tasks at the farm or the nights she spent curling up and hugging her knees with the string hanging loose off of her finger. She isn’t alone.

Historia stares deep into the man’s dark, menacing eyes, and with cold metal grazing the surface of her throat and the remains of warm blood tickling her skin, she feels nothing.

* * *

Sasha Blouse is loud, obnoxious and bordering frightening when she tears the slice of bread Krista had stolen from the dining table from her hands and bites at it with an almost animalistic desire.

Krista is shocked, overwhelmed and then Sasha is all over her, sweating skin around her neck and blabbering something about being rescued by a goddess. Krista is quiet and she turns her head away when Sasha’s hot breath gets too close, but the corners of her lips are pulling up in a smile because that touch is something new and it feels nice.

Then there’s a fierce pull at her right hand, and Krista is yanked forward, water canteen and Sasha on her lap brought onward with her. It’s as Krista glances up, startled and still with Sasha’s arms wrapped loosely around her neck that a pair of golden brown eyes meet hers, vicious and distasteful and glaring down with something close to disdain.

Krista stares as well, not willing to back away.

The girl is tall, and Krista notices the freckles first — many of them, more than she can keep track of, spread with care over olive skin like stars in the night sky that extends above them, and she wonders if she can count every single one if she ever gets the chance. Then she notices the piercing gaze that seems to bare her very soul open, the scowl on the girl’s face and how she’s keeping both hands tucked into her back pockets as if she doesn’t have a care in the world.

Krista also notes that the girl is pretty, really pretty, and her eyes wouldn’t pull off of her even if she wants to.

The girl indicates Sasha with a wild gesture — she looks mean, and Krista finds that to stir something inside her stomach that is fluttering and hot and she doesn't know what it is, exactly, only that it's also new.

“The hell are you doing?” is what the girl asks, though Krista barely registers it when she spots a glimpse of red in the girl’s right hand.

Krista tugs her thread on instinct and she sights the girl’s hand respond to the movement accordingly.

She sucks in a shaky breath. Her heart skips a beat.

* * *

Ymir doesn’t acknowledge the string that ties their hands and fates together.

Krista expects her to, at some point, and she tries to swallow the expectation because spending time with Ymir turns out to not be all about invisible red threads of destiny. It’s about stifling laughter when Ymir scoffs and mocks Eren Jaeger after he gets all tangled up in his maneuvering gear during training; it’s about stealing an additional slice of bread from dinner and convincing Sasha to mess with Jean Kirstein’s belongings when he isn’t looking, relishing on the adrenaline of getting away with the crime amidst playful giggles and Ymir’s hand ruffling her hair.

It’s also about the way Ymir clings to her at every opportunity, resting her chin on her head because she’s much taller than Krista, or taking a bruised hand from combat practice and kissing it gently, her lips soft and brushing lightly against Krista’s skin and sending a type of shiver running through her spine that feels new and different and that much more enticing.

It’s the way Ymir brings both her hands — strong and with a bit of red always attached to them — to carefully cup Krista’s cheeks and lay a soft peck on her forehead one night before the lights are out and their comrades’ curious eyes are burning on their backs. But Ymir doesn’t seem to mind, tugging Krista between her arms and holding her firmly against her chest, and so Krista can’t bother to care either. Not when Ymir feels so warm on her that her mind starts to slowly drip into unconsciousness, sleep reaching her easier than it has ever done, and suddenly nights start to not feel cold anymore.

Time with Ymir always involves touching and holding and kissing — which is Krista’s favorite, because they often come unadvised and with a little new discovery each time, and she loves to find all the small spots Ymir enjoys, like on the crane between her neck and shoulder. It isn’t a place Krista can reach often, but it’s one time they arrive at the dorm before anyone else and Ymir has her head resting on top of hers that Krista notices there are a few freckles decorating the skin of Ymir’s shoulder, too. It’s on a whim, a fleeting thought of counting every single freckle one day that has Krista laying her lips on that little spot.

It’s brief and light, but Ymir shivers against her and Krista places another one, longer and more pressing, and yet another when Ymir’s arms tighten around her and her breath itches next to Krista’s ear. She decides she likes the way her lips tingle with warmth with every kiss she gives and so she continues until Ymir is somehow laying underneath her.

Ymir’s cheeks are flushed and she doesn’t face Krista when she pulls away after they hear the ever nearing voices of their comrades arriving from dinner. And _oh_ , she adores it, that sight, because Ymir is the one to often do the teasing and the flirting and leaving her flustered is something Krista finds out she takes absolute delight in.

The red string attaching them together becomes a resting thought at the back of her mind, and it’s only once she takes notice of it again, another time Ymir takes Krista’s hand in hers and she glances down at the red between them. It’s not something of urgency anymore, though, and Krista can barely remember why it ever was. It doesn’t really seem to matter at all when Ymir is right _there_ and _with her_ and she makes Krista feel all sorts of tingly and happy. 

She decides that’s all the needs.

* * *

Ymir _does_ acknowledge the red thread.

It’s morning, one month after their graduation, as their comrades in the Survey Corps are gathering resources and materials and strapping their horses for the expedition in Wall Maria. There’s movement and side conversations and Krista is scared, her hands trembling against the cold metal of the maneuvering gear attached to her thighs, because it’s her first mission in official titan territory where there are no buildings to fly and escape to and it’s the first time since the first day of training that Ymir will be away from her.

Ymir notices the shaking, since she’s always so close. She stops, places the saddle she’s carrying on a nearby crate and pulls Krista close into a hug. It’s never quite a hug with Ymir, though, and she can’t pinpoint what is it that makes it different, so she quietly wraps her arms around Ymir’s waist and relishes in that warmth that is so familiar and makes her feel content and at home.

It’s a long moment until Ymir pulls away and bends down again before Krista can even register the absence of her touch, her lips brushing lightly against Krista’s cheek for a few seconds before placing a gentle kiss there — and another one on the forehead, one next to her ear and finally one last on the corner of her mouth. That one lasts longer, feels more urgent, and Krista awaits in expectation for more until Ymir’s breath stops tickling her skin and there’s hot and humid summer air between them instead.

Ymir is still near, though, as she always is.

“Follow the string if you need me,” she whispers close to Krista’s ear, and there’s a shiver at the bottom of her stomach as she registers Ymir’s hand pressing firmly on her back. “I’ll be at the other end. Always”

Krista only nods, because that’s all she remembers she can do at the moment, but the reassurance stays and her hands come back to solidly rest against the shivering maneuvering gear.

Ymir seems satisfied with that and smiles — that one smile that is soft, tender and carries so much adoration and that Krista has never seen directed at anyone but her.

Krista isn’t alone when she knows the girl at the other side of the string will come back to her.

* * *

Sometimes Krista dreams of the red thread hanging loose from her finger, when she’s curled up and alone and her bed feels awfully — horrifyingly — cold.

Then she startles awake, and her mind needs a brief moment to register the shock between the cold she has just experienced in her sleep and Ymir’s strong arms wrapped around her waist, holding her firmly close and involving her with that warmth that’s so comforting and relaxing and welcoming.

Krista has never had a home, but the books she had hungrily consumed as a child told her that it’s supposed to bring safety and peace, and that’s exactly what she feels when Ymir embraces her like that, at the coziness of whatever bed the Survey Corps have to offer and under the darkness of the night that hasn’t felt scary or cold in such a long time. Despite heavy eyelids and fatigue, she takes a moment to caress the soft skin of Ymir’s face because she looks so relaxed and at peace while sleeping — without the mean scowl and the teasing smirk she usually wears during waking hours.

But then, in an instant, Ymir is jumping off the tower at Utgard Castle with nothing but a pocket knife and a wish, directly into a storm of bloodthirsty titans and Krista is instinctively following after her, bending over the edge and stretching her arm as far as she can manage, as if she’ll be able to snatch Ymir right back to the fake safety of the falling tower and to her arms.

Krista watches the thread dance in the morning breeze, and suddenly there’s lightning under a crystal blue sky and she can’t see the titans or Ymir anymore. An overwhelming fear clenches her heart, makes it hard to breath — that when her sight clears her red string will be hanging loosely next to the cracked stone that builds up the tower with nothing at the opposite side to meet her.

Instead, however, she hears a roar, followed by the noise of flesh being ripped apart she’s heard so many times — when one is part of the Survey Corps, they’re bound to see at least one comrade being torn and eaten alive —, and Krista opens her eyes to find a new titan, smaller and faster and jumping off, up and down, biting and pulling at every nape it can find in its way.

Krista doesn’t need to have seen it to understand. A laugh catches on her throat and then escapes her lips — it’s surprise and amazement _and_ _adoration_ , all tangling up inside her chest in a mess of feelings and slipping in breathy giggles as she stares at the little titan aggressively defeating monster after monster, soaked in blood and sharp teeth searching for more flesh to bite into.

The thing is ugly, weird, and reflects nothing of the usual, beautiful Ymir who Krista is used to — there’s no trace of the sharp golden brown eyes or the dozens of freckles that dot several inches of olive skin that Krista has softly kissed at least a single time — but she can still tell it’s her, and she feels all relieved and happy and even Reiner and Bertolt’s absolutely bewildered faces are easy to ignore. Krista couldn’t care less about them.

All that matters is Ymir, and the red string that stretches beyond the edge of the tower and firmly connects the two of them to one another, still attached to Krista’s finger. She climbs over the stone border, faintly hearing Connie yell in worry behind her, and her own arms are up in a loud cheer — part of her mind, a very low thought, wonders how she is able to hold her balance on top of the dangling building.

“ _Survive, Ymir!_ ” she screams, feeling the inside of her throat tickle and hurt. She doesn’t mind. “Take down this tower if you have to!”

And Ymir, who is always so annoyingly stubborn -- amidst blood jarring up and the hungry howling of the titans grasping at her short legs —, listens.

* * *

There’s mountains of stone and ruins and destroyed concrete, and the ground is irregular and dangerous to even walk on, much less run. There’s still a group of surviving titans that have escaped the crushing of the falling tower, though, and they are feasting and relishing on the little, fast titan with sharp teeth that had just saved their lives.

The same little titan who nested the person that usually holds Krista so close and lays tender kisses all over her face when there isn’t anyone around, who reassuringly stands at the opposite end of the red string that ties their fates together.

But when Krista doesn’t hear the little titan’s roars and all she can see is wet, red blood shooting up in the air, flooded with sunlight and staining the old stone around, the thread is thin and transparent and she notices, feeling a tight and invisible hand smashing her throat, that it’s close to snapping altogether.

Krista — no, Historia, because Krista had stayed and died at the top of that tower when she had stood on the edge and spilled her lungs out for the person she cherishes the most in that whole, horrible world to _survive —_ runs. She speeds and jumps over stone and concrete with tears blurring her sight, though she can still faintly see the mounting of titans sauvoring on their meal. 

She’s on foot and there’s no maneuvering gear or swords attached to her thighs, and the titans tower above her as she nears them, but there’s not a single thought or even _fear_ that holds her legs in place, and the desperates yells of Connie and Reiner are nothing but mindless echo in her ears. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t stop, all she can see is Ymir’s blood painting the sky and all that her sight registers beyond that is the red thread about to crack before her eyes.

“Don’t you dare die, Ymir!”, she screeches, her voice melting amidst joyful titan howls. She isn’t even sure if she can be heard, but she’d be damned if she doesn’t dare to even try. “I haven’t told you my name yet!”

Historia is terrified, like she hasn’t been in years, and not for the titan that suddenly appears before her, permanent smile and teeth glowing in dark red slowly closing in. She has seen many of her comrades die, pulled apart member by member and eaten with delight, and while she has none of the maneuvering gear to guarantee her safety, she feels nothing before it. No, because the string is insistently pulling at her hand and if she doesn’t hurry it will break, taking Ymir with it, and that titan is every aspect of a hindrance in her way.

There’s shock, there’s anger and then there’s Mikasa, and the titan falls limp before her, nape cut off with mesmerizing skill.

“Are you alright, Krista?” Mikasa asks, brow furrowed with genuine worry, and Historia shakes her head because that’s not her name and her own well-being will never be more urgent than Ymir’s — not at that moment, not ever.

There’s tears prickling at the corner of her eyes and her voice is itchy and difficult to spill out. Her throat is sore and achy, but she does it, anyway.

“Ymir,” is all Historia is capable of whispering. Mikasa nods understandingly, eyes determined and serious, and the next second she’s shooting a steel cable up and flying away, swords in hands and red scarf swaying behind her.

* * *

One moment there’s titans and in the following there’s none, and Historia holds Ymir on her lap. There’s one arm and one leg less, and Historia notices bloodied intestines and other organs she isn’t even capable of naming spilling out. Ymir is still warm in her hands, however, with light steam spiralling up of every wound and chest rising slowly with breathing and _life_.

The red string is thinner than before, but it still holds strong and it’s _there_.

Ymir flickers her eyes open, golden and bright against the sunlight that bathes her face from above. Historia sights all the small freckles she has kissed so many times — and part of her wants to kiss them again, every single one, right at that moment —, carved in the flesh markings she recognizes from Eren, and Ymir looks so peacefully tender, prettier than Historia ever remembers her, that she lets out a shaky gasp filled with relief, and smiles.

“My name,” she whispers, so low her voice is brushed off by the wind, because she knows Squad Leader Hange is watching them intently from nearby and she wants Ymir to be the first to hear it, a promise made amidst freezing weather on a wintery mountain finally fulfilled. “Is Historia”

Ymir smiles as well.

The thread is gently brushed away by the breeze, firm and still intertwining them together.

* * *

Reiner and Bertolt are titans, too.

They’re unlike Ymir and Eren, however, because Bertolt’s titan is huge and towering and it emits hot steam off its flesh so steel cables can’t attach, and Historia’s comrades are unable to reach his nape. And while Reiner is smaller, there’s armor covering every inch of his skin and Historia knows, from the stories she has heard from Armin, that they were at Shiganshina five years before and their hands are soaked in the blood of so many people — twenty percent of the walls, Eren’s mother, Armin’s grandfather.

She should feel betrayed, she should feel rage, but amidst steam that boils the surface of her skin she sees the red string shooting up and Ymir being taken, too, and all that climbs up her chest and fills her tongue with a repulsing taste she can’t place is terror.

They’re gone on a whim — Reiner and Bertolt with Eren and Ymir —, one moment there and one moment _not_ , and Historia feels her knees weakening beneath her as she gets up from the wall’s surface and drags her legs forward, grabbing the front of Squad Leader Hange’s survey cape.

“They took Ymir,” Historia cries, and there are indeed hot tears rolling down her cheeks, mixing with dirt and sweat. “We can follow the string- I _need_ her back”

Her words die out and she forces out a cough. Hange stares down at her with something dancing in their eyes that is compassionate and understanding and they nod, lifting a hand to sinalize to their squad to start preparations.

There’s shuffling and noises of crates and equipment being moved on top of the wall, as well as up and down. It’s still morning when Commander Erwin mounts his horse and gestures with a simple hand movement for Historia and Armin to step forward, which they do without complaints nor hesitation, because there’s no time for that when so many hours have passed and the string keeps stretching farther and farther away.

“Where to?” the commander asks, direct and simple.

Simultaneously, as if combined — even if both of them hadn’t shared a word that day —, Armin and Historia lift their right arms and point towards the south. There’s a shift in light and Historia catches a faint glimpse of unfamiliar red on Armin, but when she turns her head to get a better look she finds nothing but air and a weird expression on Armin’s eyes that seem to tangle determination and fear and mix them all the same.

Historia understands because she feels that way, too.

* * *

There’s more titans, eaten comrades and blood soaking the grass underneath that Historia can keep track of. Her sight is out of focus and everything is a blur, all and everything except Ymir, who stares at her in a silent plea as golden brown eyes shine and flicker with light, face and freckles attached to the titan body she’s emerging from.

Historia is wet from titan spit and her muscles ache — the maneuvering gear heavies her legs and she has her hands grabbing titan hair that feels strangely soft —, and she listens intently to every word Ymir yells at her over titan roars and Bertolt’s cries as he hugs Eren away from a furious Mikasa trying to slash a sword through his neck.

The situation is confusing and Historia is overwhelmed, and really all she can register is that whatever Ymir is saying — something about saving herself, about using Historia for being a bastard child of some nobleman — is absolute and certain _bullshit_.

Historia shakes her head and chuckles, as if what escapes her lips next should be extremely obvious.

“I already told you,” she shouts back. “I don’t give a damn about your secrets or your reasons, Ymir. I’m on your side, no matter what”

It’s the truth, because home is where it’s safe and comfortable and she’s at peace, and Historia has decided that her home is wherever Ymir is as well, because she brings her all the safety and adoration and love she even has the right to wish for.

Ymir’s eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and relief and something else that is so genuine and sends Historia’s heart in laps inside her chest. The sun is up and high in the sky at that moment, and against the light that bathes her, Ymir seems even prettier than Historia remembers. There’s sweat and blood and Bertolt’s screams from somewhere in the front, though all Historia sees is a single red line swayling in the wind between herself and the girl she loves the most.

Historia is dangling from attached steel cables and Reiner’s run beneath her is unstable, but she sights Ymir’s lips parted in a low, surprised gasp and all that urges her forward is the burning desire to kiss her — and the both of them have shared many kisses in the years they’ve been together, but they were always placed tenderly on foreheads and cheeks and hand knuckles. Sometimes the neck, too, when Historia had felt a bit more daring and she wanted to leave Ymir too red and flustered to speak up. 

Never one on the lips, though, despite the many occasions and moods that have called for it before and that have had Historia waiting expectantly to receive one. She realizes in that moment, then, hearing the roar of dozens of horses running and attempting to catch up to them, that Ymir is an idiot — Historia has been aware of that for longer, but it is just then that it really downs on her and she smiles.

Then Reiner trips on something, forcing Historia to cling to the steel cables and maneuvering gear, and she loses her chance.

She doesn’t know where she’s being taken to — somewhere far beyond the world she knows inside the walls, she supposes — but there’s no dread clutching her heart when all that really matters and everything she can care about is that Ymir is _there_ , with her, and Historia will follow with absolute content.

She’ll wait patiently for another opportunity to give Ymir a proper kiss and feel her lips against hers — Historia knows it will come.

* * *

There’s a lot Historia doesn’t understand about people, and while Ymir is everything of a closed book with reasons and stories and motivations Historia can’t place, there is always a certainty that she would never leave her side — for the past three years, Ymir has simply been there, beside her and _with her_ , and Historia has grown accustomed to it. Ymir feels as natural as reading and slashing titans’ napes and breathing.

So, when there’s a titan hand gently caressing her hair, heavy and brute yet so delicate, a mumbled apology and then nothing, Historia doesn’t comprehend. It’s not something she can wrap her mind around, and Connie has to restrain her against himself so she doesn’t drop off her horse and dash towards the mountain of titans struggling and fighting to eat and survive.

Historia wails and cries, but Connie doesn’t let go until night has fallen and the remaining squad — about fifteen out of the one hundred that originally left — sits back against the remaining equipment and rests on top of Wall Rose. Historia is exhausted, barely acknowledging Rico offering her a canteen of fresh water and the conversations that feel muffled in her ears. She doesn’t care — she can’t _bring_ herself to care.

There’s an insistent tug at her right pinky and she doesn’t need to look down to know her thread keeps running away and stretching far beyond what she can comprehend. A part of her wonders how far it can go before it snaps completely.

Eren’s voice reaches her last. He’s discussing something with the other boys from the 104th corps a few meters away, though instead of relief in realizing he’s been brought back well and safely, her sight blurs and her throat closes with rage.

She gets up — Rico protests, Historia hears it, but pays her no attention — and drags her feet to where the small group is sharing facts and situations from that afternoon, her legs seeming to be swimming in sand. Armin notices her first, his eyebrows shooting up in worry, and then Historia has her grip on the front of Eren’s shirt with a sudden spur of strength she’s not really capable of at the moment.

Historia isn’t able to understand, as she glares into green eyes shimmering with genuine concern, why his life and well-being is more important and of more value to everyone else than Ymir’s will ever be — and hell, if she has to throw him off the wall or take him directly back to Reiner and Bertolt after all the lives that were eaten and lost to have Ymir back in her arms, Historia would do it with no hesitation whatsoever.

It takes a moment to find her voice — the inside of her chest is sore and her muscles ache —, and when she speaks up, her words shake more with desperation than with fury.

“Let’s hurry to the other side of the wall,” she manages to spit out, and Eren takes a step back. “You’re strong, aren’t you? Then fucking do _something —_ ”

Historia’s knees falter and she drops to the floor, no energy left to find more strength to stand up once again. When Eren puts a hand on her shoulder, surrounded by Jean, Connie, Armin and Rico, she grabs his wrist and shoves it away from her uniform.

She feels the string pulling at her finger, still persistent and far away to the south.

If it was hanging loose — like it had been during her childhood at the farm when days after finished tasks were boring and nights were cold — it wouldn’t make a difference.

* * *

Mikasa is the one to find Historia curled up in her bed, one hand wavering the string in circles off the edge. It can’t really sway and wobble freely like it had used to, because as strangely as it is and as empty as she feels, there’s still someone at the opposite side who is attached to her through distance and time.

It’s autumn and the nights are much colder than Historia remembers, even with the thick layer of a blanket covering her. There’s something missing, a warmth that is supposed to be there embracing her in the form of strong arms that feels like safety and home and Ymir.

But Ymir left, and Historia isn’t able to fall asleep without her.

There’s the low creaking of pressed wood and Mikasa is there in her room. She’s tall and pale and probably warm, too, except she isn’t the one Historia craves and the one she needs. She still waits and watches Mikasa sit at the end of the bed, though, because she feels it would be rude not to do so and Mikasa doesn’t deserve to be treated with indifference as well.

She sits in silence for a while and her presence is mildly comforting. The room starts to feel smaller and comfier, but still not enough for Historia to relax and let herself willingly slip into unconsciousness when her body can still resist and scare the exhaustion away.

“As long as it’s there,” Mikasa finally whispers, gently and low like she always speaks. “You can follow it to her”

Historia shakes her head. Mikasa doesn’t understand it, really, because the matter is that Ymir had the free will to make a choice — and that had been preferring Reiner and Bertolt over her, and Historia can do nothing about it besides weeping until she falls asleep every night and holding back tears of loneliness and misery and _anger_ during waking hours when there’s people around and she has to put the minimal strength up to not have a breakdown there and then.

She’s empty and broken and her heart barely seems like it’s beating. Historia has claimed her name for a promise she would have sacrificed everything to fulfill only to be left behind with solitude and an empty role to play with, because she doesn’t know the type of person Historia Reiss is.

Ymir knows, and she’s sure of it, because being with her was easy and felt as natural as reading books and breathing and sweeping Armin off his balance during combat training.

Ymir isn’t there anymore to tell her, though.

“Who is at the end of yours?” Historia says instead, because thinking of Ymir _hurts_ and all she can picture are golden brown eyes and freckles and all the kisses she wasn’t able to give her.

Mikasa smiles — it’s a rare sight when she’s normally so deadpan and serious, and there’s genuine fondness and love in her gray eyes when she gazes at her left hand.

“Sasha,” she answers, simply.

The conversation trails off there, and none of them bother to pick it back up. Good, Historia prefers that way, and so she lays on her bed until exhaustion becomes an undefeatable enemy and she steps into a light sleep.

* * *

Things happen fast when Historia doesn’t bother to pay attention, she notices. 

One moment Captain Levi is yanking her off the floor by the collar of her shirt and yelling in her ear to become queen — another role she’s accepted to play because Historia Reiss is too empty and cynical and beaten to be a living person. The Survey Corps needs her to step forward in stealing the throne from a fake king that has never ruled and she’s glad to help, because it means her mind is busy and her thoughts are off the red string that keeps pulling insistently at her finger and the person at the other end that has left her.

Then she blinks, and she’s in a cave built of pillars of sparkling crystals with her father embracing her tightly, mumbling rushed apologies with tears glimmering at the corner of his eyes that Historia is too desperate and _lonely_ to realize are empty and devoid of genuine meaning.

Everything is clear and shining and when she touches Eren’s bare back with one hand, the gaps in her mind that have always been there and that Historia had stopped paying much attention to are suddenly filled. When she notices, Frieda is part of her life again, dazzling blue eyes, waving black hair and all gentle smiles, holding Historia in her lap while she teaches her how to read and write and explains about the red thread of fate hanging from her right hand.

Frieda is abruptly there and then she’s _gone_ , dead years ago and without ever leaving a chance for Historia to thank her for keeping company to a child without a surname and a mother. Someone else she lost, that _left_ , and fury boils at the bottom of her stomach and climbs up to her mouth — anger at Reiner and Bertolt for being more important, at Ymir for leaving her behind and at Eren for snatching the only family Historia has ever known.

There’s a needle scratching her skin that Historia grips firmly. Her father is spying over her shoulder, large hands holding her in place and an encouraging smile at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m so proud of you, Historia,” he tells her, voice low and shallow but that still causes her heart to flutter and the emptiness inside her chest to feel smaller. “You’ll save humanity”

Historia is deeply aware she won’t, in fact, save humanity — all the Founding Titan has done in a century is cower in fear and hide pathetically behind walls while people are eaten and pulled apart by an outside enemy none of them can comprehend. Historia knows that, and she knows that the royal blood that runs in her veins will chain her down like it has done with Frieda and uncle Uriel before them both. 

She doesn’t care. Humanity can get fucked.

She hears Eren whimper and struggle, a droplet of blood running down her arm as she holds the serum with a shaking hand and attempts to force herself to press the needle and spinal fluid under her skin.

There’s a pull. It’s light and gentle and not nearly close enough to yank her hand away, and Historia takes her eyes off the needle to stare at the red string hanging from her right pinky for a single moment — red and thin like it has always been, reflecting the light from the crystal cave. It runs off, traversing the underground and going up to meet the person Historia still holds dearest to her heart.

“ _Are you fucking stupid?”_ it seems to whisper, and Historia can almost imagine Ymir’s voice snarling those words at her. “ _What did I even tell you? Is that brain of yours as small as the rest of you?”_

Her father’s hand grasps the serum as well, and his grip is desperate and insistent as his eyes acquire a light that burns too bright, too greedy and he’s too close, while Historia takes too long glaring at a string that isn’t even there for him to see.

She slaps his hand away, serum and needle flying off and shattering on the floor. Rod screams in shock, anger and disbelief, launching himself forward. Historia is smaller and lighter, but she is a soldier before being queen and before being the heir to the Founding Titan — she throws him over her shoulder with the cracking noise of bones breaking and a screech of agony that echoes inside the cave.

 _“She told me to live with pride,”_ Historia hisses. There’s screams, shuffling and Eren fighting to be heard over the iron gag locking his mouth, but they seem distant when rage flames and burns underneath her skin — directed, finally, at the one person who truly deserves it.

One last gentle pull at her hand, and the red string seems to hum with approval.

* * *

A coronation ceremony happens. Historia doesn’t recall much of it, the scenery and the people she’s now supposed to lead cheering as she accepts the crown over her head and lifts her hand to offer her heart — to all who watch, and to the ones that aren’t able to come, perhaps.

There’s an expedition and a battle, too. Part of Historia misses the Survey Corps — the thrilling danger of adventuring in titan territory, the drunk nights spent together with comrades and, much more importantly, Ymir. Another part appreciates court life and royal duties, though, because everything is new and unfamiliar and her mind is always busy, not allowed to have her thoughts drift away to accompany the string that stills runs through castle walls to somewhere she can’t reach.

Historia isn’t angry anymore, however — just lonely. There will always be something missing and nights will keep feeling cold.

The soldiers that come back from the expedition can be counted on both hands. It’s a terrifying number when they’re kneeled in reverence and Historia has to stare down at the wings of freedom carved in fabric into each of their backs. What they’ve brought back, she has heard, is the knowledge of an enemy waiting beyond an infinity of water that a merchant can spend their entire life extracting salt from.

Not very promising.

She hands out the medals and receives a kiss on the back of her hand for each one given. They’re freezing and uncomfortable and all Historia wishes is for that ceremony to be over soon.

Then Eren takes her hand in his, and she feels electricity tickling her skin — it _hurts_ , and she jerks her hand away from his touch, eyes wide and throat closing in startlement. Each pair of eyes in the room is staring firmly at her, she knows it, but Historia doesn’t bother to look up when she hears something snap.

The red string that has been stretched far and wide, thin and strong and firm for so long fades away into the air, disappearing slowly until there’s nothing there at all, as if it’s never existed altogether. The end attached to her finger still remains, however, short and lonely and _loose_.

Historia strangles with a muffled sob. Captain Levi’s eyes are the first to meet hers, filled with concern and an empathetic understanding that feels too painfully familiar.

* * *

_My only regret is not marrying you_.

The words burn deep in her mind as Historia caresses the paper tucked in her hands, sharing memories and an untold life and reminding her of all the moments and kisses and words she has never had the opportunity to give Ymir — and it’s too late for that now, as the thread that has connected them for years bounces lightly off of her finger, alone and lost and leading her to nowhere and no one she can follow.

Historia folds the papers, guarding secrets and a life she has never imagined would ever connect them so deeply.

She doesn’t feel her heart beating. Breathing is ragged and hard.

“You asshole,” is all she manages to whisper while tears that are wet and hot roll down her cheeks. 

No one hears it. The string isn’t attached to anything to be able to guide her words.

* * *

Days and weeks and months are turned into years and each night still feels as cold as the first one Historia spent after returning from Wall Rose, safety and warmth and home taken from her on a whim — embracing her the night before and nonexistent in the next.

It’s spring and the weather is supposed to feel fresh and welcoming, but the farm is wide and spacious and there’s nothing and no one to entertain her besides one boy from her childhood that keeps her company and the life that grows and nurtures inside of her — one that Historia has never wanted, but she’s exhausted and unable to find the energy to talk or bother in getting furious at her situation or at her partner who hasn’t even done anything wrong.

Mikasa visits her once, and she’s the only one to, taller than Historia remembers her, hair shorter and a drained stance that mimics her own. Too much has happened — they want rest.

She sits on the front porch, quiet as she always is, though there’s something else that Historia can’t identify until Mikasa parts her lips and what escapes them is a low sob that is so uncharacteristic of her that Historia is left mildly horrified, amidst all the exhaustion that fortunately keeps feelings tame and tucked away.

“My string snapped too,” Mikasa whispers at last, a single tear tracing its way down over the scar on her cheek and ending lost between the folds of the worn out scarf she has never let go of.

Something faint clutches Historia’s heart, and a memory long past of sweaty arms and hot breath too close to her face ressurges in her mind, a stolen piece of bread and opposite ends of the same line of fate meeting on that first day. Historia doesn’t want to, but she remembers Sasha’s smile and Ymir’s smirk as they pushed each other next to the well in the training camp one time — she can’t recall what the three of them had been doing, though.

It’s odd. That seems to have happened a decade ago. It shouldn’t seem to pierce her stomach with ice.

Historia thinks she should cry, but there are too many people who have come and gone and she doesn’t have the will to spill any more tears after them. She hasn’t for a long time.

Instead, she offers her hand, to which Mikasa takes almost immediately, and hers is big and calloused and carries strength. A line of an unfamiliar shade of red hangs off of her pinky, too — Historia spots it as clearly as she sees her own, and they spend a while that slips away too slowly missing the other halves of their souls who have wandered to somewhere they can’t follow.

The farm is wide and the spring air seems colder than it should be, but it feels a bit comfier for as long Mikasa remains sitting on the porch beside her.

* * *

There’s a pain that pierces and cuts through her stomach, followed by blood and sweat and the cries of a newborn baby.

Historia is drained — even more than she already is, normally, and the part of her mind that isn’t covered in fog and agony wonders, genuinely, how that is even possible.

A voice asks her something. A name, maybe, because she’s mildly aware that she needs to say a name, but there’s no vigor left to force her mouth to whisper it to the outside and her sight is blurred with tears and fatigue and she can barely _think —_ only that she wants to lay down to fall asleep and never wake up again, because her entire body is up in flames and her blood that’s still safely travelling through her veins _boils_. It’s warm enough for that, too, almost like Historia has been brought back to the nights at the training camp where she had been everything but alone.

She misses it, and she still wants it back — even after four years have passed and there’s now a whole new life that’s cursed with her blood but entrusted to her care all the same.

Historia doesn’t realize the red thread that has swayed short and loose off her hand for too long is tugging at her again -- urgent, insistent and with desperation to be followed after.

* * *

Ymir is there, somehow.

She’s as tall as Historia remembers her, not a single inch more nor less. She hasn’t changed at all, actually, except for a couple of pounds lost at some point — but her eyes are still sharp and golden and there’s those dozens of freckles dotting her cheeks and shoulders and that Historia has given each a kiss once upon a time, when she had been a stupid teen stupidly in love.

She doesn’t react — hell, she _can’t_ react, not when there’s four years of muffled and repressed feelings ressurging and tangling inside her chest in a tight mess that she can’t tear apart. There’s only the shaking of her hands and a strangled cry that escapes her throat.

Ymir smiles, half teasing and half apologetically, her fingers picking up the red string that has — finally — returned to connect.

“I followed it,” she says.

Historia runs. Her legs feel weak and they falter when her steps quicken, but suddenly Ymir is towering over her and Historia’s hand closes into a fist to meet her face.

Ymir stumbles back, holding her nose. There’s a cracking sound that tears through the arriving night and droplets of blood that spill out and touch the grass beneath, and a single second of shock decorates her eyes before she melts into laughter. Historia hisses and scoffs but there’s not a single trace of anger lingering in her heart — how can it have, when he knuckles sting with the pain of a punch that has met real, existing flesh that is _there_ again and back to her?

“Fair, I deserve this one,” Ymir chuckles, rubbing the blood off of her face but still leaving a dark red smudge splattered on her cheek.

And then Historia is all over her, cupping her face with desperate urgency and feeling the tips of her fingers tingle with that warmth that is still so familiar and that _oh_ , she has missed _so much_ . It’s a kiss laid on Ymir’s other cheek, first, the one that isn’t dirty with blood, Historia’s lips pressing and wet and _yearning_ , tracing every single freckle that dots olive skin like the stars that are beginning to be born above them. Ymir’s arms are around her, too, tight and strong and feeling like home the way Historia recalls them — the way she has craved for them every night that has felt too cold to fall asleep willingly.

Historia pulls away, very briefly, her mouth tasting like blood and Ymir, spring air fresh between them.

“I hate you,” she breathes, and Ymir smirks — the one grin that sends Historia’s heart fluttering in jumps against her ribs.

“You sure do,” she whispers back, leaning down to let her own lips brush over the surface of Historia’s mouth. “How about marrying me after this, then?”

Ymir’s breath is hot and it tickles the surface of Historia’s skin. There’s one moment when they stand still, unmoving, spring breeze grazing over warm bodies that tingle with urge and desire and the yearning of too much time apart. The faint shuffling of animals over at the stable is all the sound that reaches them. 

There’s a red line that’s thin and faint and it glows in the moonlight that bathes them both. It’s silence only, and then there’s Ymir’s lips on hers.

It’s an awkward bump of noses and teeth at first and Historia realizes, wet lips pushing against hers with urgency, that oh, neither of them have done that before, have they? There isn’t hesitance where it should be, though, because there has been too much time and death and repressed words and feelings between them for something as frivolous and little as that. 

Ymir understands it — she feels the same, one hand climbing down and holding Historia’s back firmly, pulling her forward and in and _closer_ , drawing in on warmth and urge and flaming desire. Then the whimpering request for more touch that is _there_ turns into a plea, and Historia’s hands are tugging at Ymir’s hair, up and reaching and _feeling_ , and she wants more, so much more.

Ymir’s breath itches and rags when Historia bites at her lip, and they stop, just for a moment — an agonizing one only enough to gasp and search for air and then they’re back, wet and hot and with the faint taste of metal on Historia’s tongue. And Ymir presses forward, insisting, a sigh that is muffled between pecks that are returned with vigor until they’re laying on the ground, grass tickling Historia’s legs through fabric and Ymir over her.

Historia knows that she’s Queen and there’s people who expect her leadership and a newborn child awaiting for her care inside the house — and then that becomes a quick thought drowned in her mind when Ymir starts trailing kisses down her neck and she shivers.

She’s hot, her body is hot and Ymir feels hot against her chest too, and there’s nothing in the world but them. Historia doesn’t care — she can’t bring herself to care, and she’s fine with it.

Ymir leaves one last kiss on the tip of her nose, lips pulling up in a smile that is tender and loving and reaches all the way up to her eyes.

“Can I consider this my answer, then?” she asks, head nesting on the crane between Historia’s neck and shoulder.

Historia chuckles, her fingers messing and playing with Ymir’s short hair, still as soft as she recalls it from training days. “Yes,” she breathes next to Ymir’s ear.

She doesn’t understand how Ymir can be back and there in her arms, but she doesn’t really want to — all that matters is that Ymir is real and warm and her embrace feels like home all over again.

When Historia lifts their hands, fingers intertwined, she realizes there isn’t a red string attaching and tying them to one another. It has probably faded away, taken by the breeze and into the night.

Historia had once followed the thread, and Ymir had followed it back to find her.

There’s no use for it anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> since people were saying past titan shifters could be resurrected after chapter 137 leaks i took the opportunity
> 
> aaand this also pretty much turned into a historia character study. which is okay actually, she's my fave. i love writing both of them so much they're everything to me 
> 
> for you, who made it all the way down here, thank you so much for the time taken reading my work :') it means a lot to me really. oh, and comments make a writer's day. just saying
> 
> special thanks to my friend [rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plnkstardust/profile) for betaing this. AND btw my twitter is [@pandahuff_](https://twitter.com/pandahuff_) if you want to see me going off about four different things at once. im cool i promise


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